


A Christmas Carrie

by fairy_obvious



Category: Homeland
Genre: Advent Calendar, Advent Calendar 2016, F/M, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 22:03:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8771035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairy_obvious/pseuds/fairy_obvious
Summary: Advent Calendar Story for December 6Carrie meets Quinn for the first time. People who read it have said something happens between the two, although it might be... a matter of opinion.A huuuuge thanks to Leblanc1 and ascloseasthis for editing!





	

It is December 6, but fucking Christmas lights are already all over the town. Carrie is sitting in a small bar in the old part of Princeton, not because she is looking for a quick date or plans to get seriously drunk; she is not even wearing anything special. But that’s what you do, right? That’s what people do when they break up with their boyfriends and girlfriends – they go to bars, they mingle, they cheer up. Staying in is for losers; she tried it yesterday, and it didn’t work. However, running into some of their common friends would totally ruin the idea of getting her mind off things, so this time she chose a random bar where she’s never been before.

He was her second college boyfriend, not to mention a couple of high-school crushes, and she knows everything there is to know about relationships. Right? She has even read some books, but frankly, she could write one already. And there is not much to regret about what happened, but during her last visit home, she was unlucky to give Maggie and dad some hints that she was seeing someone, and now the thought of having to bring the subject up at Christmas makes her cringe.

Their break-up was brisk and ridiculous, which made it all the more irreversible. They were in his room at the residence, each of them immersed in their work. They often did so, and it normally worked, unless one of them was in a particularly talkative mood (hardly ever Carrie). Sitting by the window, with her back to the room, she was struggling through a particularly challenging Farsi assignment, her boyfriend a humming noise in the background, both figuratively and literally. She wasn’t really listening because he would often whine and complain about his classes or professors and an occasional “Yeah,” “Really?” and “They can’t be serious” generally did the job of upholding the conversation. This time, he went on and on:

\- No, just listen to it: “…inevitable, all-consuming, inconvenient, self-obliterating, fatal yet life-affirming, destructive yet demiurgic love!” (Yeah.) Can you believe we’re supposed to study this shit for an entire term? (Really?) Yeah, really! As if there was suddenly nothing else to read in the European literature except for that Tristan and Juliet, Romeo and Isolde kind of crap! (They can’t be serious.) You bet they are. You know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking they’re all whackos. The characters, I mean. Why on earth would you do all those crazy things? Nutjobs, every single one, looneys, gone to their own planet to chase unicorns. No, seriously, how could they not be mental?  I, for one, think people like them should be locked away, not showcased to our generation as role models. Role models for what, going off the rails? Hey, Carrie-O! Are you even listening? What are you thinking about?

By that time, she had been listening intently for a while, staring with a blank gaze at the bleak early-December landscape out of the window. When she finally answered, her voice was just as bleak and flat:

\- I’m thinking we’re so over, you and me.

She has always been a practical, down-to-earth girl – not one you could win over by writing a sappy Valentine card or manipulate into dating by threatening to jump out of the window. They cherished the assumed exceptionality of their relationship: while other college couples went to the movies to see brainless romantic comedies and horror stories and make out in the last row, the two of them played pool in smoky bars, went on long hikes in the country and took part in all sorts of trivia nights. She was not one for exalted affirmations or signs of affection, so this surge of disgust and frustration was all the more unexpected. However, it brought a strange sort of relief, as if she could finally put into words what had been wrong with their relationship all along.

Of course, an awkward silence followed, and some pleading, and some shouting, and nasty words were said, on both parts, but overall, there was nothing to regret or take back. Needless to say, she did not mention her condition, which he had never learned about. Needless to say, she’d rather have died than mentioned it.

And there she is, perched on a bar stool at the near-empty, stained counter under a string of mockingly cheerful Christmas lights. She’d have much preferred a table, but in spite of it being Wednesday, all the tables have been taken by happy couples, which seem to hide somewhere and then jump at you in hordes as soon as you are not a member of one. And so do obnoxious strangers in suits with silly-patterned ties. Emerging from thin air, a specimen like this approaches her:

\- Can I buy you a drink?

Caught by surprise, she blurts out the first silly thing that crosses her mind:

\- I’m sorry, I’m… engaged.

Not only is it silly, but it also doesn’t work. The guy moves uncomfortably close, speaking in a wheezy voice which is supposed to imitate a seductive huskiness.

\- Well, it looks like you’ve lost your ring then… Do you mind if I look for it under your stool?

_ “I should buy a fucking ring for occasions like this.” _

\- That was a nice way of telling you to fuck off, dumbass.

He shrugs and leaves without a word. She concludes he is not so much of a dumbass, actually – just an outsider to her usual circle of hip college kids, a provincial white collar looking for some fun on a business trip (which explained his formal suit at such an hour). She acquired the habit of analyzing people’s looks quite a while ago, but she’s never told anyone, out of a natural fear of being mocked Lady Sherlock or worse. As much as she enjoys this little game, her mood is irrevocably wrecked. Finishing her shot of tequila, which gives her an uneasy blurriness instead of the usual dizzy warmth, she slides into her coat, wraps a thick scarf around her neck and heads for the door, welcoming the first gulp of chilly, refreshing night air.

Although it is not midnight yet, the street is empty – not a soul on the frostbitten pavements except for a group of young men, apparently involved in some sort of a practical joke or a bet, exchanging small pieces of paper with something written on them and laughing wholeheartedly. Dressed in black and khaki, with occasional splashes of camo, they don’t look like they’re from Princeton either. Although she would hesitate to say they are soldiers or police, there’s something unmistakably military about them, an evasive unity which is not to be confused with the put-on camaraderie of an average drunken company. Unsure what to make of them, she stares for a fraction of a second longer and meets the eye of the guy in the middle. He casts a brief look at a tiny scrap of paper before sending it flying into the trash bin and suddenly addresses her, taking a few steps forward.

\- Hey, sweetheart, do you believe in true love?

A lanky dark-haired guy, her age or a bit older. Daring, mischievous look of gray-blue eyes. The thought of upholding this about-to-be-vulgar conversation doesn’t even cross her mind, but she feels strangely safe around him – or maybe it’s the tequila. So she takes her time for a proper retort, before turning her back on him:

\- Dude, your pickup coach fucked you over, whoever he was. You’re like two centuries behind.

His companions burst laughing unabashedly. “She’s a tough one!” sneers someone. “In your face!” “Yeah, suck it up, Johnny boy!” He doesn’t seem discouraged, but she has already crossed the street, so he has to shout:

\- The thing is, if you don’t, that makes two of us!

“Two of us,” resonates his voice in the narrow empty alley. More heckling follows. She shivers in faint disgust. Uniform or not, she’s never understood girls who have a soft spot for military guys.  _ “Sweetheart!”  _ Ugh.

And besides, even if she was interested…  Every relationship-advice book she’s laid her hands on strongly advises against starting a relationship immediately after ending one. Hooking up with some random paramilitary thug the next day – how desperate is that? 

He is kind of handsome, though. And there is something about his voice, something sad, broken, yet unfathomably intimate, which she won’t be able to shake off for a couple of days. Maybe more. She’ll chalk it up on her loneliness and the pressure that sugar-coated marketing bullshit puts on young single girls around Christmas.


End file.
